


Rift

by Kalael



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalael/pseuds/Kalael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Will slides through time, slipping between the cracks of centuries without realizing it until it’s too late.  He would be concerned, except he knows that whether he is in the present or the past he is exactly where he is meant to be at that moment.  </p><p>But eventually he stumbles and Bran is not so forgiving of his mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes Will slides through time, slipping between the cracks of centuries without realizing it until it’s too late. He would be concerned, except he knows that whether he is in the present or the past he is exactly where he is meant to be at that moment. The cup of tea he’d been holding in the small bookshop had been cold for an hour, but now it is warm against his fingers and he is staring at rows of jarred herbs.

“Lovely blend, isn’t it? Ginger is good for the stomach, you know.” The elderly woman behind the counter pours herself a cup and sips it cautiously, her eyes never leaving Will’s face.

“I didn’t know.” Will says amiably. “It has a pleasant taste, very light.” His tea at the bookshop had been black, not herbal, but as he sips from the cup he tastes the aforementioned ginger. The woman beams at him and scurries towards one end of the wall, climbing onto a ladder and spooning tea leaves into a tin. Will reaches into his pocket and feels the weight of coins there. When he’d left his flat that morning he had only brought a ten pound bill, and his coat had been wrinkled where it is now ironed smooth.

“Here you are, dear. No, no, don’t pay me, you’re too young to worry about such a thing. I hope the tea will help your mother.” She hands him the tin, neatly tied with a ribbon, and Will reaches up to place a few coins on the counter anyway.

When he had left home that morning he had been a twenty five year old man where he is now an eleven year old boy.

“You are never too young to worry.” He says solemnly. “Thank you, ma’am, and have a wonderful afternoon.”

He turns to leave and finds himself staring at rows of bookshelves. His coat is wrinkled again and he is much taller, but the tin and the tea are cool in his hands. Will pockets the tin and returns the teacup to the counter of the cafe. The barista smiles at him and tosses her dark hair over her shoulder but Will only gives her a half hearted wave before leaving. For a moment the world overlays cars with carriages but when he blinks there are only taxis, no horses to be seen.

He is not running out of time because he is made of time. Time does not master him just as he does not master it. But Will knows that something is shifting. The slips come more frequently than ever before and each time he leaves with something he has physically carried over. They are not things of power, just ordinary things he has no right to be keeping. They are warnings to him. He knows that much.

Will makes his way to the nearest tube station and when the lights flicker, plunging him into momentary darkness, he suddenly understands.

He is not running out of time, but someone else might be.


	2. Chapter 2

He has not written to Bran Davies in two years and he isn’t about to start again now, so when Will buys a train ticket to Wales he doesn’t bother giving Bran a heads up. He knows that if Bran were to expect him, then he would find a way to weasel out of it and avoid Will for the duration of the visit. Will had never been able to assure the others that he was normal. They had always been able to sense the wrongness about him, his presence poking at the holes in their memories and causing discomfort. So he had removed himself from the lives of the Drew children and Bran Davies, figuring that it was for the best. They had sent letters, but those eventually dwindled in frequency as college and careers and marriage had occurred. Will couldn’t pretend he did not feel disappointed, does not feel it still, but it had been for the best. He cannot regret the decision now.

It’s not the first time he has taken the train alone but it’s the first time he’s felt so lonely doing it. It’s an off day for travelling, in the middle of the work week and during the morning to boot, so the car is mostly empty. He could read, nap, or stare out the window, but Will finds the decision being made for him as he slips through time again.

The train isn’t old enough for him to go too far back and the young man staring at him from the seat across is wearing fashion from four years prior. Will knows this because he had once owned the exact same coat, courtesy of his sister Mary.

“Sorry, I’m quite nervous.” The young man says. He has an Irish accent and his fingers are restlessly drumming the armrests. The upholstery looks brand new. “Never been to Wales, despite my Da being full Welsh. Sheep fucker.” He laughs but it’s joyless and strained and he cuts off abruptly, staring at Will with an anxious gaze.

“It’s a lovely place.” Will reassures. “No matter what jokes are made about the people. They’re all kind enough. Visiting relatives?”

“Yeah. Yes. Da’s brother and his wife, they’re taking me on for the summer. I was studying in London, the Slade, but I need summer work and they said the farm could use an extra hand. I’m hoping to paint, too, but...we’ll see.” Will watches the man shift in his seat. He is tense, with too much energy and nowhere to put it.

“I’m sure you’ll find the time for sketching, at least.” Will smiles at him and the man smiles tentatively back.

“I hope. I’ve done some, from pictures Da has. Here, I brought them with...” He digs through his bag, shuffling papers and pencils around. One falls to the floor and Will picks it up, waiting for the man to notice him again. After a moment he makes a triumphant sound and pulls out a folder, from which he takes a sheet of slightly battered paper. Will stares at the sketch handed to him. It’s a familiar landscape, one that he knows very well.

“Cader Idris.” He murmurs. He wonders who this man’s father is, if perhaps he has met him, if he once lived in Tywyn.

“You know it? Here, you can have that. That mountain is beautiful, but I’d rather draw the real thing. You can keep it. As thanks.”

“No, thank you.” Will says with genuine gratitude, but when he looks up he finds an empty seat with faded upholstery before him. Carefully, he tucks the sketch away into his bag. At least now he has a peace offering for Bran. He spends the rest of trip in silence, gazing out the window until he dozes off.

He dreams of white plume moths, blue stones, and red fire burning so hot that he wakes up with the taste of smoke on his tongue.

There is no one to greet Will at the station but he hadn’t expected anyone anyway, so he hitches a ride with a farmer who takes him a fifteen minute’s walk away from the Davies residence. He thanks the farmer, presses a few bills into his hands despite the man’s protests, then begins to walk. He could have gone to his relatives first, but they would have immediately alerted Bran to Will’s presence and that would have delayed the whole reason that Will has come to Wales for in the first place. So instead he walks the familiar pathway to the small home where Bran and Owen Davies live, knapsack slung over his shoulder. He hadn’t brought much, only a few changes of clothes and the essentials.

He isn’t sure if Bran will even allow him to stay, in which case he can walk to his Aunt’s home, but he knows that Owen has beaten some sort of politeness into Bran’s head over the years. Will won’t be left in the cold. He feels a knot of apprehension twisting in his stomach, because although Bran won’t leave him outside, Bran would still be angry with him.

Will knocks on the door and receives no answer. He tries again with the same result. The sun is still up, so Will reasons that the Davies men are likely still working.

He shrugs his bag off his shoulders, places it on the ground, and sits down on the stoop to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OVER A YEAR LATER........whoops. Sorry for any discrepancies in this, I'll have to look it over later.

The sun has set when Will catches sight of movement in the dark. Bran makes his way towards the house with wary steps, his black clothes losing him almost entirely in the shadows. Only his white hair and pale skin show in the dim starlight. Will bites down on his tongue to keep from calling out, knowing that Bran has already spotted him under the porch light. When Bran finally reaches him he towers over Will, who is still seated on the stairs.

“You’ve hardly aged.” Bran drawls, and there is more to that statement than Will wants to acknowledge so he just bobs his head as he stands.

“Runt of the litter, you know. Short, but good genes. Let me come in?” He asks, and though he wants to say a thousand other things, guilt weighs down his tongue.

“Need an invitation, do you? You’re like one of the fairy folk.” Bran steps aside to make room for Will to enter. His stance is wide, offensive, as though he expects Will to pull a trick of some sort. It stings but it’s not unexpected.

“An invitation’s the polite thing, but I could always barge in unannounced if that makes you feel better.” Will tells him with a smile he doesn’t mean. Bran gives a humorless smirk in return.

“Try that and you may find yourself at the edge of a sword, boy.” Bran says, and it’s meant to be joking but it comes across as ominous. Bran himself looks a bit put off by the threat, but Will's smile grows tight as he strains for apathy.

“Been taking up swordfighting, have you?” Will murmurs. Of course he has, the Light would never fully leave Bran. Eirias was practically burned into his palms, unseen imprints poisoning his dreams with memories he won’t recall in the morning. Bran shrugs one shoulder as Will walks past him into the house.

“Blacksmithing. Passes the time, when there’s no other work. John Rowlands has been teaching me, though I’ve no idea where he learned himself.” Bran has this habit of sounding accusing, something he had developed after his memories were taken, and Will had thought he had gotten used to it but after so many years it's a bit like a slap in the face. He looks at the walls, unchanged after all this time, and finds nothing to comment on to change the subject.

“S’not too strange, is it? Making horseshoes and the like must give you some idea of how the rest works.” He says instead, reluctantly continuing the conversation. John Rowlands has seen Will more often than Bran has, and the man always has a withdrawn, sad look that makes Will feel like vanishing each time that sorrowful gaze is fixed upon his face. Bran shuts the door, the hinges creaking under the heavy weight of the solid oak.

“Maybe. Rather doubt it, though.” Again with the accusing tone. Will shuts his eyes, reminds himself that the past doesn’t mean a thing to a boy who doesn’t remember it. He exhales slowly as though it will expel the tension from the room.

"I'm certainly no expert. But it would be nice to see your work." Will tries to imagine the blades that Bran might shape, and they all look Eirias.

"Maybe." They fall into silence that stretches on too long for comfort. Bran's golden eyes bore into the side of Will's head as Will guiltily avoids meeting his gaze.

“Don’t suppose you’d mind a guest for tonight?” He asks, finally. Bran abruptly turns away, as though he had been waiting for Will to ask, and it’s not unlikely that he was.

“Whether I mind or not, you know that even I’m not rude enough to turn a man away this late into the night. Crafty Will.” Bran makes his way further into the small house, edging around a worn sofa that Will recognizes even after all these years. He shifts his bag on his shoulder, feeling the aching weight of it after having carried it all day.

“I could always try to find my way to Aunt Jen’s.” It’s not a very sincere suggestion. His aunt has no idea that he’s in town, and though Will knows he can’t keep it that way, he didn’t come here for them. Bran still won’t look at him, as though seeing Will within his home will shatter something. The tension, the hurt, their awkward truce, Will isn’t certain.

“You’re already here, may as well make the best of it. The couch isn’t too uncomfortable and we have spare blankets. I’m up with the sun, and if you want breakfast you’ll have to make it yourself.” Bran finally turns his gaze back to Will and there’s something off in those golden eyes, something scared and confused, and Will’s heart skips a beat as he shoves away the hope he knows he can’t allow himself. That magic was binding. Bran cannot remember.

“You’re trusting me not to burn down your kitchen?” The way I allowed the mountain to, he thinks to himself, but Bran either doesn’t catch the implication or ignores it.

“Trust is earned, boyo. You can start by making yourself breakfast like a capable human being, and we’ll go from there.” Will catches the insult, lets it rattle in his head. He doesn’t belong here, he knows, and it’s for the best that Bran stays wary. He accepts the quilts that are handed to him, the craftwork familiar, most likely a gift from Aunt Jen. Will lays awake long after Bran has left him in the dark room, the rough sofa arm beneath his head and faint lamplight flickering beneath Bran’s door.

Trust is earned, but Will does not know how to repair the trust that Bran had himself unknowingly broken.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a plot I promise. Also you can find me on tumblr under the same name so hit me up if you wanna correct me on anything I'm flubbing up, it's been a long while since I read the series and there's only so much artistic license I can take before someone's bound to find a major flaw.

Morning comes far too quickly for Will. He feels as though he hasn’t slept a wink when the sunlight begins to filter through the thin curtains. It can barely be considered dawn, but sure enough Will hears Bran shuffling into the bathroom. When he hears the sink running, he rolls off the couch with a groan and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on. It’s just to the point of boiling when Bran finally enters the room, shirtless and mussy with a tired scowl on his face.

“Toast.” Will offers up a plate with two thick slices, and Bran eyes them with something between bewilderment and contempt before taking a slice and shoving it into his mouth. They each make their own cups tea, and Will has a second while Bran sets about making porridge. There is enough for two, and Will can’t help but be a bit startled by it. When Bran falters in setting the table it becomes clear that it was just a habit from routine. The second place is meant for Owen, not Will, and it occurs to him suddenly that Owen had not returned to the house the night before.

“Bran…” He starts, but he is interrupted by a bowl being shoved forcefully into his hands.

“Well, don’t gawp at it. Eat the damn porridge, then go make yourself presentable. We’re going to town.” Bran says gruffly, sitting down a little too heavily and shoved a spoonful into his mouth. Will wants to ask about Owen, but instead he eats slowly while Bran powers through his own breakfast in order to finish the morning chores.

When Bran disappears outside to check on the chickens, Will goes to use the shower. Although he is mindful of the water he can’t help but take a moment to just breathe. He hasn’t been to Wales in years. Scotland, Germany, Switzerland, even a brief stint in Iceland, but he has not set foot in Wales since the last time he saw Bran and the Drew children over Christmas. It doesn’t quite feel like coming home, not with all the painful memories that latch around his ankles and pull him towards the fields. But it feels familiar to the part of him that is mortal and frail, and Will aches for the normalcy that has been denied him. He turns off the shower and rests his forehead against the cold fiberglass wall until he hears Bran reenter the house. Time to move.

They leave the house both dressed in black, Bran looking as striking as always and Will feeling a bit like his shadow. It’s colder than the day before but Will had planned for that, and he pulls his thick grey scarf over his nose. Bran appears unaffected in his turtleneck and wool jacket, even as the winds grow stronger on the road. They don’t speak and Will has no desire to break the silence, too uncertain of what he could even say. Bran has not mentioned Owen once.

Tywyn is the same as Will remembers it, with some minor changes. A few different shops, a few repainted homes, the addition of another bus stop. In a way it’s like slipping through time again and Will has to look at Bran in order to feel grounded, to remind himself that he is still in the present. Bran’s tall figure is impressive, his lithe body maneuvering quickly down the streets, and Will finds that he has to walk briskly in order to keep up with those long strides. Bran isn’t that much taller than him, only by a few inches, but Will’s stocky build is no match for Bran’s long gait. He nearly reaches out to grab the back of Bran’s coat, wants to ask him to slow down, but something chokes him.

Bran never glances behind himself, not even once, and Will is forcefully reminded that he will be left behind if he does not chase after him.

As children they had walked side by side.

“We’re here.” Bran says, stopping suddenly. Will nearly walks right into his back as he looks up at the building they have stopped in front of. The clinic. Everything clicks into place. Bran enters the building without hesitation but Will takes a moment to compose himself before following. The receptionist greets Bran with a tired hello and eyes Will with no small amount of curiosity, but they don’t stop to chat.

Owen Davies is dozing on a hospital bed, attached to a heart monitor and an IV, face gaunt and expression drawn. Will looks to Bran and sees a tiredness there that he didn’t notice before, lines creasing his forehead and a furrowed brow.

“Diabetic.” Bran says, his voice soft so as not to wake Owen. “We didn’t know until he collapsed. You’d think I’d have noticed before it got this bad, but Owen is a stubborn sort. He didn’t want to go to the doctor. In the end, there was no choice.”

“I…” Will wants to say he’s sorry, but he knows the apology won’t mean a thing. “Owen is a strong man. Too strong, if he hid it that long. I doubt a thing like this will kill him.”

“I know.” Bran’s lips quirk in what might have been an attempt at a smile, but instead he looks pained. “I’m going to flag down the doctor, get an update.” And then he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him. It’s just Will and Owen in the room. Will takes a seat in one of the chairs near the foot of Owen’s bed and rests his chin in his hand.

“I know you’re awake. You shouldn’t be afraid to talk to your own son.” He tells Owen. The man sighs and opens his eyes, hazily focusing on Will.

“Not so much fear as guilt.” He admits. “Selfishness nearly cost me my life. Bran may never forgive me.”

“I think he’s just glad you’re alive.” Will assures him. Owen looks at him for a long moment, and although the Davies men share no blood relation, Will can see the resemblance in their thoughtful stares.

“You’ve not been around in a while. I’m certain he’s glad to see you’re still alive as well.” Owen tells him as he sits up. Will moves to help him but Owen waves him away, ever the self-sufficient man even in illness.

“Don’t deflect.” Will says, smiling, but Owen’s words weigh on his mind. He can’t read Bran as well as he used to, the man having closed himself off. But if he brought Will to see Owen, he can’t hate Will as much as he pretends to.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Bran has reentered the room, doctor in tow, and Will takes that as his queue to leave. Bran catches his eye as he exits and Will understands the unspoken demand. Don’t run away. Will smiles in return, the kind of smile that he knows Bran hates, and waits in the hallway. He’s not running away, not when there’s still the chance that something bad is happening.

He hasn’t slipped through time once since he’s arrived, and it’s a little funny how that makes him more suspicious than anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Man I'm pretty sure I forgot some important details about the time travelling stuff but this is really just a fic to get my mind moving so I'm not going to worry too much about it.


End file.
